


Teru teru bouzu will lose his head

by Yumi_Take



Category: Sarai-ya Goyou | House of Five Leaves
Genre: (Matsu isn't clear on Ume's feelings), (Matsu isn't clear on his own feelings either), (maybe ?), Alcohol, Introspection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26883682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yumi_Take/pseuds/Yumi_Take
Summary: The maple turns redNorthern winds make branches creakLike my painful jointsMatsu never expected for the nights spent drinking with Ume to turn into a habit, but here they are. Despite the warmth of both the sake and the company, though, old scars still hurt with the cold of the coming day.
Relationships: Matsukichi & Umezou (Sarai-ya Goyou), Matsukichi/Umezou (Sarai-ya Goyou)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Teru teru bouzu will lose his head

**Author's Note:**

> I can use my articulations to predict the weather like a 60yo man, what are y'all doing with your 20s ?
> 
> More seriously, the evolution of Ume and Matsu's relationship, from slight antagonism to actual friendship, is maybe one of my favorite things in this manga. Which is saying something, because I am. In love with House of Five Leaves. So here I am, with a rather seasonal piece.

Matsu empties his sake cup, puts it down next to him, and, waiting for it to be refilled, absentmindedly rubs his left arm. He feels the scar pull at his skin, like the bite of a crab, or the bite of the wind tomorrow will no doubt bring. It makes him feel old, this pain.

“Something wrong ?” Ume asks in a half-voice. He doesn’t want to wake Okinu upstairs.

That’s something Matsu never expected to happen, this… habit, almost. Drinking sake into the night together, speaking of nothing, or speaking nothing at all. Sitting in almost silence, alone with Ume.

That’s something Matsu never expected to enjoy.

“It’s going to be cold tomorrow.”

The answer seems to perplex Ume, who frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, then –

“Aren’t you a bit young for joint pain ?”

Matsu sighs.

His cup is still empty. Right now, he misses the burn of alcohol on his tongue, just strong enough to make the sting in his arm feel like an afterthought. Hang him at a window, and he will predict the weather with the same accuracy as a man twice his age. Shame he can’t make it so it’s always warm. No amazake for him.

Still, some old scars hurting are a much better fate than to be beheaded. Not being able to change the weather might not be that bad.

He presses his thumb across the length of the line hidden under his sleeve. The pressure helps, a little, but the skin there still feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right. And Matsu feels old.

He shrugs.

“Not the joints.”

He could stop there, and in any other situation, with anyone else, he probably would. But there are three empty bottles of sake already littered around the two of them, the fourth still only half-full, and even sober he seems unable to quite hold his tongue around Ume. So he adds “Old scar,” before giving up on politeness and grabbing the bottle to serve himself.

Ume nods. Holds his cup for Matsu to refill. That, too, is an almost-habit, that petty game of theirs to see who will hold out the longest before having to serve the sake. That, too, is something Matsu never expected to enjoy, in some way.

His hand shakes a little, and some sake drips out of Ume’s cup. Last bottle of the night, then, more would be unreasonable. They’re reaching the end of this one soon, anyway. Matsu will just have to hope the warm, numb feeling of alcohol in his body will be enough for him to fall asleep when he gets home, instead of lying awake for hours, trying to wish away the pain and the discomfort it brings.

That’s the worst part, really, the pull on his skin, _in_ his skin, the feeling of something wrong that he can’t even really do anything about. It’s akin to going to sleep with broken ribs, when every single breath brings with it a new wave of pain, making it impossible to get used to it.

It’s not something he can put a bandage on, find a position in which it doesn’t hurt too much, and ignore. No matter how much he would want that.

In the corner of his eye, he notices Ume staring at him, frowning in the way he tends to do when trying to think. If this was Masa he was dealing with, Matsu would be worried about an upcoming question that would inevitably put him in the awkward position of having to actually _face_ things he would rather pretend aren’t there. But Ume knows there are limits he can’t breach, and usually respects that, even with a considerable amount of sake in his stomach.

So Matsu closes his eyes and takes another sip, not paying too much attention to the shuffling of clothes nearby or the creaking wood as Ume rises to his feet. “Stay here,” Ume says, but Matsu already had no intention of going anywhere, not before having ingested all the alcohol he reasonably can, so he ignores it as well.

Ume isn’t here when he opens his eyes, probably gone to fetch a fifth bottle. Matsu puts down his now empty cup, and leans back with a sigh.

He feels tired, and old.

The stairs whine when Ume walks back down. Matsu hadn’t noticed that was the direction Ume had gone, didn’t notice the weight of his steps on the wooden planks as he went upstairs, even though that’s a noise he knows by heart, the signal that a room is safe to enter. He glares at the near-empty bottle by his side, like it’s responsible for his inattention, like he didn’t make the choice to dull his senses by himself.

The bottle. Right, there’s no sake upstairs.

Matsu raises his head, watches as Ume’s silhouette slowly walks out of the shadows of the staircase and into the dim light of the oil lamp. He’s holding a small box, and brings with it a smell other than just the alcohol they’ve spent hours drinking, foreign and familiar. It makes Matsu’s nose itch.

Only when Ume sits down, when he opens the box and unveils the balm in it, does Matsu recognize the smell as medicinal. It’s almost overwhelming, the way it clashes with the scents of cooking that have made their home in Ume’s place, and with the residues of sake clinging to Matsu’s clothes, the way its bitterness burns the inside of Matsu’s nose and throat more surely than the strongest alcohol he’s ever drank.

He sneezes.

Ume looks at him with amused eyes, lets out a short laugh when Matsu hides his nose inside his sleeve to escape the wave of medicinal herbs threatening to drown him.

“Kinu never made that much fuss, even as a kid,” he says lightly.

Matsu just glares at him.

“Maybe it’s because she’s used to you smelling like pickles all the time.”

It makes him uneasy, this situation. Of course Ume, bleeding heart that he is, would look at Matsu’s pain and think there’s something to be done about it. But it’s not how this works, not how _they_ work.

Ume dressed his wounds after the Ohtsuya debacle, saw the results of his recklessness over the years, the rope burns on his wrists and the bruises from the beatings he got from trying to escape without a plan, and the scar that ended his career as a thief.

And they never talked about it after that night. Not about the wounds, and not about what was said then either.

Matsu wouldn’t quite call that decision an agreement. He didn’t mention it and neither did Ume, and that was that, same as everyone in the Five Leaves except Masa knows not to ask too much questions. It’s basic manners.

Ume sighs.

“Stop being a baby and give me your arm.”

It’s basic manners, that Ume has apparently decided to ignore entirely.

The sake is at fault, Matsu decides. Ume knows the limits, usually, so him showing this much care when Matsu is perfectly fine and hasn’t been held hostage for three days… it has to be the sake. It has to.

Otherwise, Matsu won’t know what to do with this undeserved kindness.

Ume is still holding out his hand expectantly, and Matsu slowly raises his head from the elbow he was hiding it in. He isn’t sure, in that instant, what he intends to do. Maybe he’s going to tell Ume off. Maybe he’s going to let Ume put some balm on his arm and take some of the pain away, for just a moment. Maybe he’s going to let himself drown in the warmth of the alcohol in his body and the warmth of Ume’s kindness, lose his head for a second and –

He shakes his head. That, too, is the sake’s fault. Has to be.

Matsu shrugs off his left sleeve, lets the collar of his kimono hit the crease of his elbow before slipping his arm out of it entirely. Even with Ume nearby, the cool air of the night still hits Matsu, and he can’t stop himself from shivering. The haragake keeps his chest warm, at the very least, even if it can’t protect his back and shoulder. Small mercies.

The cold does nothing for the pain, only sharpens it, and Matsu instinctively presses his hand on the source of it.

He doesn’t look when Ume gently grabs his arm, doesn’t look as he takes Matsu’s hand away to place it back down in his lap, just as gently, _refuses_ to look anywhere but at his own hand and the way the striped cloth of the kimono brings it out by contrast, even in the dim light of the room, when Ume dips his fingers in the balm and brings them to Matsu’s skin, always gently, always kindly, as if Matsu were one of the hairpins he crafts, precious and delicate and nothing like himself.

Ume’s hands are warm as they rub against the length of the scar, from the back of Matsu’s shoulder to the inside of his arm, almost reaching the elbow joint, pressing relentlessly on the skin, still kind, in a way that makes Matsu feel like his head is swimming in more sake than what he actually ingested, but not quite as gentle anymore, more focused on ensuring the balm is sufficiently absorbed than on whatever was going through Ume’s head before.

Matsu feels warm. Feels like he accidentally managed to call a sunny day when rain was previously expected. Feels like –

It’s all too much, suddenly. The smell of medicinal herbs, the sake numbing Matsu’s thoughts, Ume’s warmth, his constant kindness that Matsu doesn’t deserve, the knowledge that no matter what, tomorrow will be cold and Matsu’s arm will hurt.

He takes hold of the amulet with his free hand. Presses his forehead into the closed fist. Breathes out.

Ume’s hands don’t stop. Matsu doesn’t know what he’d do if they did. He tries to focus on that, on the sensation, the warmth, instead of the way his throat contracts around his thoughts. Focus on the amulet in his hand, on the cloth, thinning after years of being manipulated, on the soft cord tying it to his neck. On the small circles Ume traces along Matsu’s arm, climbing slowly from elbow to shoulder, his hands rough from work and the salt he uses for his pickles, yet impossibly soft in their movements.

Matsu nearly wants to lean into it. Lean into Ume’s kindness, into his arms, to cry, or to maybe…

Much as he wants to blame the sake, he knows perfectly well that’s not all there is to this. Ume is a good man, and even if Matsu doesn’t deserve his affection, he can’t help but feel almost relieved whenever Ume keeps his door open for him, along with a bottle or two. Relieved that Ume’s nature allows him to accept and show kindness even to a man like Matsu, who can’t do a single thing right by himself.

There’s fear, too, always, that Matsu will mess up, will demonstrate how pathetic he really is, and that Ume will finally see the light… but Ume was here for the fallout of Ohtsuya, saw him at his most pathetic, much like Masa did, and still he dressed Matsu’s wounds and stayed by his side, still he washed Matsu’s kimono, still he worried and asked about the child Matsu can’t call his, not out of pity, but out of the genuine kindness Matsu used to find so irritating.

He wouldn’t call this love. Whatever this feeling is, it is nothing like the hunger that overtakes Matsu when it comes to Ichi. Nothing like that need to be needed, to be useful, to be _enough_.

Ume is a good man, and Matsu wants to relish in his warmth.

And if tomorrow will be cold, then so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> [Illustration on my tumblr](https://crescentmoonrider.tumblr.com/post/631356224279019520/the-maple-turns-red-northern-winds-make-branches)


End file.
